


Awake

by 35portlandrow



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Dicks out for Inspector Barnes, I Didn't Take My Antidepressant Today So This Is Really Angsty, No Proofreading We Die Like Men, TW Emetophobia, The Secret Liquor Cabinet of Donald and Celia Lockwood, tw alcohol, tw blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 15:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11900835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35portlandrow/pseuds/35portlandrow
Summary: Alternatively titled: "The Swansong of Montagu Barnes." The Problem is over. Lockwood & Co. has won. Then, in the middle of trying to find their place in a society that doesn't need them anymore, the gang drinks to remember a fallen shining beacon of authority and the law: Inspector Montagu Barnes of DEPRAC. A good time is had by some.





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is something that's been sitting in my fic folder for probably a year. Just ignore how unlikely it is that the gang is gonna be alive and together in a Post-Problem world. Just let me enjoy my kids while they're all still breathing, because canon will ruin that in LESS THAN A MONTH. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Lockwood & Co. nor do I condone drinking in excess. Don't binge drink but please do respect intellectual property.

How fortunate of Inspector Montagu Barnes to live long enough to see the end of the Problem and the birth of his fifth grandchild.

“Really?” Lockwood had said, looking up at Barnes over the shoulder of the paramedic tending to a could’ve-been-worse cut above his eyebrow. Barnes had nodded and, oddly enough, smiled, the caterpillar on his lip arching its body, like a cat stretching in a sunspot. “Your fifth grandchild?” He had tried to hide his surprise behind polite inquiry but failed. Barnes hadn’t noticed, but he was not quite so perceptive of Lockwood as Lucy who was also surprised to discover that Barnes not only was a grandfather but had a family.

“Yes, my daughter, Olivia. This’ll be her third.” He paused, and then he smiled again. “It’s... It’s almost inconceivable: A generation of children who will never know this fear. Who can live their lives with no fear of the shadows.”

Oh. That hadn’t even crossed her mind. In the past forty-eight hours, they’d - being a task force between Lockwood & Co., Kipps, and Flo Bones and her cohort of teenage relic men and women - uncovered and destroyed the ultimate Source. The Orpheus Society had been piled into police cars, arrested for their crimes. In the wake of such madness, it hadn’t occurred to Lucy that this was it. She looked over to Lockwood and George. Somewhere in the bright darkness of Lockwood’s eyes was a lost man. The foundation of his entire life was now flickering out of existence; for years, he based his life on the eradication of Visitors, vengeance, never looking past tomorrow, never expecting to live that long. There was that same look in George’s eyes too. Pursuits of knowledge left unfulfilled and never to be laid to rest.

How fortunate they were, Lucy thought. How fortunate and cursed. To now be relieved of these duties but to have no purpose at all. How fortunate they were to be alive.

* * *

 

Yet, within three months of the end of the Problem, Inspector Montagu Barnes was buried in a small graveyard. His surprisingly large but expectedly mundane family were in attendance, as were the agents formerly a part of the independent outfit known as Lockwood & Co. Half of DEPRAC came to pay their respects as well. The funeral was a somber, solemn, and unexpectedly Catholic affair. And even with the waning presence of Visitors worldwide, there were still agents hired to install the necessary precautions against Barnes coming back from the dead. Four young agents spread salt the grass. Lucy, Lockwood, George, Kipps, and Holly remained at the graveside as people wandered off, standing in silence. It was eventually Kipps who spoke first.

“I led a team about two weeks after I’d been promoted to supervisor,” he said, cashmere scarf muffling his voice. “Just a standard haunting. Type Two in some old residential building. Don’t ask me to remember the details of the case, because now it’s all a blur, but I do one of my agents - a kid named Baker. Lee Baker. Probably not someone you would know - wound up with a broken arm. Barnes showed up right as the ambulance arrived. The paramedics were taking Baker away when I saw Barnes pull a flask out of his coat. He probably chugged about half the damn thing before he noticed me. Swore me to secrecy. Would’ve probably been fired if I’d told anyone. But now…”

“Can’t be fired if you’re dead,” quipped George.

“Exactly.”

“Not that I blame him, really,” said Holly, who was met with four looks of vague surprise. “I just mean that after, what, forty years of working for DEPRAC, I can imagine you’d want to treat yourself to a drink at the end of the night. You should get as much for surviving that long.”

“So, what do you get for surviving nearly twenty years?”

“George, you’re hardly even seventeen.”

“I’m rounding up, Luce.”

“You know that old little cabinet in the corner of the basement, by the suit of armor? It’s my parents’ old liquor cabinet. Well, I guess it’s mine now. So.” Lockwood cast a glance around the semicircle of his friends. “Between the five of us, I’d say that there’s at least fifty years of service - more than Barnes gave.” And then he smiled, and if Lucy hadn’t it seen it, she would have thought a charismatic sunbeam burst through the clouds. “Should warrant us a few swigs from that crystal bottle of scotch, wouldn’t you say?”

* * *

 

By eight o’clock that night, the other four were well past a few swigs of scotch, but Lucy was still sipping her first glass of red wine. It had started in moderation - they had passed the bottle around in a circle, sharing their fondest memories of Inspector Barnes (which were as “fond” as a moderate amount of mutual disdain would allow) - but like most activities participated in by Lockwood & Co., it had gotten quickly out of hand. Lockwood had been the first to pour himself a glass and slam it down in one shot. (Lucy had watched the rest of the company follow suit, pouring themselves glass after glass of scotch. Until the bottle of scotch was as full as their futures.)

Soon after, George and Kipps had settled on the floor, hunched over a chess set, muttering to each other. Holly was rifling through a dusty box of records, no doubt something she found while cleaning some long-neglected corner of the house. Lockwood hovered over her shoulder, resting his forearms on the back of the sofa. Lucy watched as he narrated each selection, pointing and commenting in a low voice. A small twinge of something sour - something she hadn’t felt in a while - embitter the space behind her ribcage. Lucy eyed the bottle of scotch. No, this wasn’t something she could enjoy, not with the memory of her father’s apathy and the way Mary used to flinch when someone came in for a hug. Regardless, the feeling passed. She was about to stand to top off her glass of wine when Lockwood called her over.

“Lucy, you ever heard of Ella Fitzgerald? Holly says she’s never heard of her.”

“That’s not what I said. I said I’d never heard anything by her.”

“The name sounds familiar,” Lucy said, standing from her perch on the armchair. She crossed the room to stand by the sofa. Lockwood was fully upright, if swaying a bit. Holly remained seating. Even deep in her cups, she was the picture of poise and grace. Lockwood, however, did not look so composed. The ever-present light in his bright-dark eyes had dimmed a little bit, and the smile spread across his was a little crooked. Still, it sparked something in Lucy, and though she was sober, her fingers shook as Lockwood passed her the record.

It was an old, fraying thing, with a curvaceous dark-skinned woman smiling on the front. Definitely something from the pre-Problem days. Something that someone - likely Donald or Celia Lockwood - had stored away for a brighter day. There were several more in the cardboard box on Holly’s lap, all with the same faded glory. Until that moment, it had never occurred to Lucy that Lockwood’s parents may have played him these records during the small sliver of his childhood when they were alive. Still, after over two years, there were still so much to discover about Lockwood.

“Here, hand it back. I’m gonna go put it on. It’s too quiet in here, don’t you think? And besides, the way they’re…” And then Lockwood hiccuped, a squeaky little sound. Holly giggled. The grin that grew across Lucy’s face was involuntary. “So sorry. Pardon me. What was I saying?”

“The way they’re…”

“Right. Thank you, Hol. The way they’re muttering over there-” He pointed the record at George and Kipps. “Is rather… Rather unnerving. So, hand it here, Luce.” Without his usual grace, he wandered over to a phonograph in the corner. The music soon came pouring out of the little funnel thing. Lockwood grinned again.

“This is a good one.” And Anthony Lockwood joined Ella Fitzgerald, turning it into a drunken duet. He didn’t quite hit the notes, and each word sounded like someone stepped on it and spread it all over the sidewalk. Lucy glanced at Holly, who was grinning so wide her face would split. They made brief eye contact and burst into giggles. Holly bounded to her feet then, and reached out for Lucy.

“Lucy, dance with me!”

“Oh, Holly. I think I’m okay.”

“No, come on, Luce! Luce, my goose. Come on.”

“Dance with her, Lucy!” Lockwood crowed. “Luce, my goose! That’s brilliant. That’s such a- Christ, such a brilliant nickname. Why didn’t I think of it before?”

“Because I’m smarter than you, Lockwood.”

“No, you’re not-”

“Come on, Lockwood, let’s be honest,” Holly said, giggling. She crossed the room to stand before Lockwood. Swiftly and decisively, she grabbed his face with both hands and stared into those eyes. “I should be in charge around here. You guys- You’d fall apart without me.”

“No, that’s not-”

“Ooh, you know what would be fun? If we played a drinking game.” Holly squeezed Lockwood’s cheeks, beaming. “Every time someone remembers a time when I saved your skins, we each take a shot of scotch.” As Lucy glanced at the dwindling bottle of scotch, easily, seven different instances popped into her head.

“You know what, actually?” Lucy began over the din of the music and the chess match. “That sounds like fun, but we might want to slow down on the alcohol for the night.”

“Aw, Lucy,” Holly groaned. “Come on.”

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I can get you some water instead. How’s that?”

Lucy returned soon with five glasses of water. She handed one to Holly and one to Lockwood, both of whom were sitting on the couch. Then, she walked over to George and Kipps, who were still in the middle of their match.

“How is it going over here?” A pause. “Good, I hope?”

“I’m kicking his ass,” George muttered. Unlike Lockwood, there was little to no difference between Sober George and Drunk George. His face, as always, was virtually unreadable. Unless one knew him well, then one would notice the way his eyelids were drooping, just a little bit, behind his glasses.

“Kicking my ass, my ass,” Kipps quipped. He made a quick, if a little manic, movement. His sweatered arm darted forward, moving a knight forward and settling it on the square. Well, that's what he probably intended to do. Instead, he succeeded in knocking over almost all of the pieces on the board, sending them flying across the little wooden battlefield. George groaned, loud and suffering.

“Nice going, Kipps!”

“Cut me some slack. I’m trying my goddamn best.”

“Not good enough, Kipps. Not good enough.”

“Well, I brought you both some water. It’ll make waking up in the morning easier.” Kipps grunted his thanks, while George sat silently, gathering up the pieces and organizing them. Silence settled over the room, but not over Ella Fitzgerald, who crooned from the corner, and not over Lockwood, who, draped over the armchair, silently mouthed the words. Holly was curled up on the couch, trailing a finger around the rim of her glass.

“Know what I think is re-re… Excuse me, remarkable?” George began. “How we all made it out of this alive.”

“Way to liven up the party, Cubbins.”

“Shut up, Kipps. No, seriously. When you think about the survival rate of agents in London? And everything that happened at the Fittes Hose, how did we - some motley group of agents, a ragtag team of kids - make it out alive? How did we… Have you guys thought about that? Why us? Why were we the ones to make it out?”

“Just… Probably luck, I guess, George.”

“No, Luce, I think it’s gotta be more than that.” Slowly and stumbling, George rose to his feet, swaying slightly. He began pacing, like a professor in a lecture hall. “Some higher power. Maybe.”

“There is no higher power,” muttered Kipps. All eyes turned to him, save Lockwood, who was apparently dozing on the couch. “Come on. You know the survival rate of agents. Do you think a higher power would let that kind of shite happen? To kids?”

“Nobody said it was a benevolent higher power,” George countered.

“If it’s not a benevolent power, then why did it spare us, Cubbins? Tell me that. What did we do to earn its favor?”

“I don’t know,” Holly muttered from the sofa. “I think there’s some higher power. Something out there, putting this all together, pulling all the strings.”

“An omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent puppeteer?” George asked.

“Maybe. That’s not how I would have put it. But maybe.”

“Lucy, what do you think?”

“Oh. Um. I’m not too sure. It’s not something I’ve had the luxury of thinking about. Not until now, I suppose. I don’t know. There could be something out there. I’m not sure about a paternal god who watches over humanity like we’re his children. Or her children. But there were times in my life where I should have died, but I didn’t.”

“All good points.”

“Thanks, Holly.”

“But?” asked George, leaning against the back of the armchair where Lockwood lie sleeping.

“But… On the other hand, if there is a- what was the word you used, George?”

“Omniscient? Omnipresent? Omnipotent?”

“Um, yes. If there is a… one of those words kind of god, why did he - or she, or it - let the Problem even happen? Why did all those children die? And why would it allow the kind of corruption that infected the Fittes corporation and the Orpheus Society. And all of the lives that they ruined…” At that, all eyes drifted to their leader, Anthony Lockwood, who was no longer dozing, but staring straight up at the ceiling. “I suppose… I don’t know. I can’t decide what I believe. But I do admire people who can - and who do. Like Barnes.”

“Surprisingly Catholic,” Kipps muttered. He reached for his glass of water and raised it high. A little too high, because water rained down on his expensive suede loafers. He let out a curse that would curdle milk. But he composed himself and cleared his throat. “To Barnes. Rest in peace.” Those lucid enough to respond echoed back the sentiment. Silence settled over the room once more.

“So, if that concludes-” George began, but was interrupted by a strangled sort of moan. “Do you have something to add, Lockwood.” Lockwood heaved himself upright. He turned his head to look at all of them, face paler than usual and certainly wan. He was still, and then he sprang to his feet and hurtled out of the room. From somewhere in the house, probably the kitchen, Lucy could hear Lockwood retching.

“I’ll go help him,” Holly muttered, springing to her feet. She swayed backwards, then forwards, and then backwards once again onto the sofa.

“Don’t move, Holly. I can take care of him.” As Lucy left the library, Holly called out behind her: “Lucy, you’re beautiful.”

There were no lights on in the hallway, and only one turned on in the kitchen over the sink, glinting off of Lockwood’s bowed dark head. He gripped the edges of the counter. His narrow shoulders shook. Sweat glistened on the back of his neck. He was silent. He was still.

“Lockwood?” Lucy approached until she could lay a hand on his back. “Are you okay?” She stepped to be by his side. He looked a wreck. There was vomit on the corner of his mouth. Sweat-slick hair stuck to his forehead. He gave no indication that he knew she was there other than the clammy hand that moved to cover hers. Something small and frantic beat a drum behind Lucy’s ribcage. He opened his mouth, probably to speak. Lucy leaned forward, ready to listen. But then Lockwood retched into the sink.

“That’s disgusting,” Lucy muttered and then sputtered as Lockwood stiffened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine.” He turned to her then, gripping her hand tightly. “How do I look, Luce, my goose?” He smiled then, and very little was charming about it.

“You’ve looked better. Here, come on. You need to sit. I’ll grab you the bin, and a towel for your face.”

“Why? Have I got something on it?”

“Just a little.”

“Ah.” She guided him into a chair and then settled in by his side, handing him the bin, setting a glass of water down on the kitchen table, over a too-lifelike drawing of a Revenant. As he clutched the bin, she wiped the vomit away from his chin. There. A little bit better. Not returned to his typical boyish glory. But better.

“This… was probably a bad idea.”

“Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“Do you just… Did you ever…” He struggled to string his words into sentences. “Did you ever feel like there was no time for grief? During the Problem?” It was Lucy’s turn to grasp at words. “It’s part of the reason why I wanted to hold this wake for Barnes. To drink to those we lost along the way. That we never truly got to grieve. Like Barnes. Like Ned Shaw. Like…” He trailed off then and stared out of the window above the sink. Into the inky blackness, where there was nothing that would harm him. Not anymore. “Like Jessica. Like Mum. Like Dad.” He reached back for the water, downing half of it in one go. “You know, even now that it’s all over, I still feel hollow inside. Like someone dug a hole in the earth for a coffin, but never put one in. But never laid anything to rest.”

“We avenged them, though. I mean, don’t you think? Fittes is gone, so’s the Orpheus Society.”

“Suppose we did. But still. I just. I can’t feel anything. Can’t feel anything, Luce. Nothing but dread for what’s to come. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am an agent, now entering a world that has no need for me anymore. Who am I? What do I do? What fucking purpose do I have in this world?” He reached for the water, finished it off. Lucy stood, hands shaking, and walked to the tap. She stared out the window. Behind her, Lockwood spoke again. “I didn’t believe I’d live this long.” He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. Then, in a voice so quiet and so shaky, he whispered, “I didn’t even want to be alive this long.”

“Anthony.” The name was foreign in her mouth. For a long while, in the back corners of her mind, she’d wanted to call him that. She rehearsed it again and again and again. Now, she found saying it was like saying a word after repeating it forty times. It didn’t even feel like a name at all. She turned to him then. His head was bowed, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. As she was halfway to him, he vomited again, into the bin. He moaned and raised his head. His nose was bleeding, just slightly. Lucy rushed to him, picking up the towel and pressing it to his nose.

She’d seen him bloodied before. Bloodied and exhausted and torn up. But this was different. This was worlds different. There was no heroism in this blood, no glory and no victory or gain. This was a boy, first robbed by the world of his family, and now his living, his personhood. This was a boy tetherless and unreceived. Lockwood had been the dashing golden boy, bane of DEPRAC’s existence. But Anthony- Anthony was just a boy. Just a broken boy who called out into the darkness for someone to help. With a moment of sudden clarity, Lucy realized he wasn’t just sobbing, but whispering her name.

Her heart shattered. A river of something that was mostly pity, but also love, rushed into the valley of her chest. She moved her chair closer, so it was touching his. She wrapped one arm around his shoulder and used the other to hold the towel to his nose. Lucy held Anthony, a little awkwardly, before she gathered the courage to swing her legs into his lap. They were close enough, suddenly, and Anthony wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her as close as he could. Clinging to her like a sailor to the broken mast of his ship in the middle of a hurricane.

Lucy had no idea how long they’d been sitting like this when Anthony’s storm subsided. As his shoulders began to still, and tears no longer fell from those bright-dark eyes, Lucy pulled the towel away from his face. There was blood on his upper lip, and a little bit of vomit still on his chin. She stood up to retrieve a clean and damp towel. When she returned, she raised it to his face, but Anthony reached for her wrist.

“No, let- let me. I can do it. I can do this myself.” And so he did. Lucy watched and resisted the urge to guide his hand when he missed the drying blood by a margin. But soon enough, his face was clean. And Lucy realized, even though he probably didn’t, that this was his life now. He would have to clean the blood from his hands on his own, and orient himself to this new existence on his own. If he was ever to resurrect himself into someone that would last, it would have to be by his own hand.

When he was finished, he handed her the towel, and she let it drop to the floor. His eyes met hers, and he gazed, pinning her to her seat. Lucy had not realized that she’d placed her legs back in his lap until one of his slim hands came to rest on her knee. They sat there, staring at each other, for several charged moments. Again, Lucy had not realized how close they were until his forehead came to rest on hers. His hand moved to rest on her waist. Her head was spinning. Oh, God. Oh, God. Forget what she’d said earlier. There was a higher power because whatever it was kept her alive for this moment.

“Lucy.” His voice was a whisper that stirred the hair at her temples. His voice was a whisper that smelled like scotch, that dragged Lucy out of that charged moment and back into reality. She pulled back, slowly, turning her face away.

“Is there, um, anything else that you need… Anthony?” He pulled his head back too, but let his hand remain on her waist. He was quiet for a moment, eyes closed. He breathed in and out deeply.

“I think I might retire for the night. Would you mind lending me your arm, Lucy, my goose, to help me up? I think the climb upstairs might kill me if there’s no one there to lean on.”

“Of course.”

“Splendid. Alright, let’s move these.” He grasped her legs at the knees and swiveled them off of his lap. Lucy stood and helped Anthony get to his feet, keeping one hand on his elbow and the other around his waist. Together, as gracefully as a three-legged giraffe, they made their way out of the kitchen, past the library, where Holly was curled up on her side on the sofa, while Kipps and George continued another round of chess.

The ascent up the stairs was slow, but not fatal. Lucy, not for the first time that night, was proud of her decision not to drink more than a few sips of wine. They walked slowly in the dark, fumbling a little bit until they reached Anthony’s door. Lucy guided him to the bed, where he promptly collapsed. She was sure he was asleep until she heard him speak.

“I know it was my idea to drink tonight.” He paused.

“But?”

“What? Oh, right. I know it was my idea, but this was a really bad idea.”

“Yep.”

“One of the worst.”

“That’s fair.”

“But don’t tell Holly. Or she’ll try to usurp me.”

“Trust me, none of you will be in any state to usurp anyone for at least eighteen hours. Is that all, then, Anthony? Do you need anything else?”

“Yes. Can you promise me that you’ll call me Anthony when I’m sober tomorrow?”

“You might not be sober tomorrow, but yes. Of course. If you’d like.”

“Yes, I would. Like, that is. More than anything in the world.”

“As long as you call me ‘Luce, my goose.’”

“But Holly will upsurp me!”

“It’s _usurp_ , but I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. In any case, good night. Anthony.” Lucy waited in the dark for a response, for a slurred, “Good night. Luce, my goose.” But there was nothing. Only quiet and even breaths punctuating the still, still air. Though he was sleeping like the dead - because the dead actually slept in those days - Lucy shut the door carefully. And she stepped carefully down the hall, past the unmarked door, where the shrine to his pain was gathered, and up the stairs to the attic, where she would sleep uninterrupted. For the first time in a very, very long time.


End file.
